Battle for the Stars: The Space Opera Classic

by Edmond Hamilton

  He didn't like it. Riding through the crowded streets with a carful of gay, chattering people that included Lyllin, Garstang, Mallinson and an Earth couple whose names he hadn't even caught, Birrel stared out sourly. He was used to far more awesome lights than these—the titanic splendors of a cluster's massed suns, the sprawl and glow of vast nebulae. But you saw those from the quiet of the bridge, they changed position with godlike deliberation, they didn't whirl past you like all these lights and crowds and noises in the streets.

  He wished he had not come on this excursion, but Mallinson had said that, since Charteris was occupied tonight, he was their official host. He had offered to show Lyllin some of Earth's nightlife, and Birrel had felt it would be a rudeness to refuse. Lyllin appeared to be enjoying it, though with her you could never be sure. But of Garstang there seemed no doubt whatever, he had had some drinks and was having himself a time.

  Yet Birrel uneasily remembered what Garstang had said after they had left Brescnik at the spaceport that afternoon, and were walking back to the car.

  "Brescnik's a good officer,” he said in his mild way. “Obeys orders and asks no questions. I guess that's why he made Vice-Commander."

  Birrel glanced sharply at him. “Yes."

  Garstang added, “And I guess that's why I'll never make Vice-Commander. I ask questions. Like, why are we going on Ready? Like, what the devil's going on?"

  Birrel was about to dress him down when something occurred to him. He said, “You heard what was said about an Orion squadron maybe coming in. What makes you think anything else than that is going on?"

  Garstang shrugged. “I told you how my crewmen started a row saying we could mop up the whole UW fleet. Well, there was a reason they said that. It was some cracks the UW crewmen at that party made about what were we doing here with a full squadron, did Ferdias have ideas of taking over Earth?"

  Birrel stopped. “Has anybody else been talking that sort of thing?"

  "It's been mentioned through the squadron on the way here—just a speculation."

  "A real bright one,” Birrel said. “Do they think we'd come on a job like that with full transports?"

  "Well,” said Garstang, “there's an idea that that might be just cover-up."

  Birrel said a disgusted word. “Sure,” Garstang agreed. “But you'll have to admit it would be like Ferdias. Anyway, I'm just as glad I've got no family to tag along with me here."

  Birrel had brooded on that all the way to New York. If people were talking like that, Karsh's report to Ferdias had been accurate. There was wide-spread suspicion here of the Fifth's purpose in coming. Such suspicions might indeed have been planted by Orion's agents for their own reasons, but, all the same, they were real. Karsh, who knew the situation here better than he, could tell him how to deal with that. That is, Birrel thought sourly, if he ever got out of this inane round of social doings and made his all-important contact with Karsh.

  Mallinson had stopped the car and now he led them along the crowded sidewalks. The press was terrific, people had poured in from far distances for the commemoration. It was a motley crowd, laughing, gay, noisy, under the flaring lights. Persistent music blared, the special commemoration march. As though to top the din, a rolling thunder ripped across the sky. Birrel, listening intently, put it down as another merchant starship.

  They went into a place almost as noisy as the street, softly lighted, filled with music and chatter and the rustle of many people dancing. There were other uniforms in here beside Birrel's and Garstang's—black coveralls of the UW, a sprinkling of officers from Cepheus and Leo. But they all looked at Birrel and at Lyllin, whose foreign beauty was a standout even in this crowd.

  "I don't see as many of your men tonight as I expected,” Mallinson said after they had a table. “I thought they'd all be in on the town."

  Birrel shrugged. “We've some refitting that's keeping a lot of them busy."

  "Of course,” said Mallinson, smiling. “I'm sure you have much to think about and prepare for.” And he turned to Lyllin and talked brightly of Earth wines and foods.

  Go ahead and needle, Birrel thought. You'll not get a thing out of me, no matter what you and Charteris suspect. And where was Charteris tonight, anyway? What was it that kept him so occupied?

  The music and the chatter were getting on his nerves. He looked around and saw the curious looks his party was getting. He resented them. He saw two young junior officers in the UW black, at a bar across the room, look at him and Lyllin and then one of them said something and the other laughed. Birrel's temper flared, but at that moment he felt the small buzzing in his pocket.

  "Will you excuse me?” he said to the others, and got up and walked out to the lobby of the noisy place and into a privacy-booth. Then he quickly snatched the shortrange Porto out of his pocket, thumbed its button, and said, “Yes?"

  No one spoke and he said again, sharply, “Yes?"

  He thought he heard a sound like a sigh from the Porto. Then nothing. The tiny blinker on the Porto went out.

  Birrel stood, frowning. Only a very few people had the wavelength of his personal Porto. He could not think of one of them who would do a thing like this for a joke.

  But was it a joke? He did not think so. What, then? He had not the faintest idea, but he suddenly began to worry. He set his Porto to Brescnik's wave and punched the call button.

  Brescnik's voice came, surprised. “Did I call you? No."

  Birrel asked sharply, “How are you out there?"

  "Ready,” said Brescnik simply.

  "All right, keep it so,” said Birrel, and cut off.

  That, at least, removed his major worry. He thought he was probably a little too jumpy. Still, the call bothered him.

  On his way back to the table, Birrel passed the bar and saw the two young UW officers who had looked at him and Lyllin and had joked and laughed. The anger that the porto call had interrupted came back to him. He went up to them and they turned, two very young Earthmen who looked startled. Birrel spoke flatly to the blond-haired one.

  "You were saying something amusing. I'd like to bear it."

  The young officer said, puzzledly, “What?"

  Birrel repeated, “You were looking at my wife and at me a few moments ago, and remarking on us. I'd like to hear what you said."

  An appalled look came into the junior officer's face. He stiffened up, though, and said, “I wasn't speaking to you, sir."

  "All the same, let's hear it,” suggested Birrel, in an edged voice.

  The young officer glanced at his companion, then back into Birrel's hard face. His face became pink and he breathed with difficulty and finally he spoke with a sort of desperation.

  "Since you insist, sir. I said, “Look at the damn Lyra commander swanking in to show off his brass."'

  It was so unexpected, and so exactly the kind of thing that Birrel himself would have said when he was a wet-nosed junior officer, that he suddenly laughed aloud. The frightened young Earthman gaped.

  "All right, I asked for that,” said Birrel. “I'll buy a drink."

  "Yes, sir,” gasped the other.

  He tossed down the drink, shook hands with them, and turned and left them staring incredulously after him. He was still chuckling when he got back to the table.

  "It's good to see you're getting along so well here, Commander,” said Mallinson, plainly curious.

  "Isn't it?” said Birrel, and looked at the two young officers who were now rapidly departing, and chuckled again.

  Then, meeting Lyllin's dark, steady gaze, Birrel felt less amused. He had an idea that Lyllin guessed perfectly well why he had a chip on his shoulder, though he hoped she did not.

  He had another drink, and another, and watched her dancing with Mallinson and listened to meaningless chatter from a dozen voices. More of Mallinson's friends had joined them, there was a babble of questions about Lyra from them, and though he could hardly hear over the beat of the music, Joe Garstang answered them, lying with expansive magnific
ence.

  The table trembled slightly.

  Birrel stiffened, but then he decided that it was only the clamor of music and the dancing feet that had caused the vibration.

  Then, even as he started to relax, it trembled again, more strongly, and a sound came into the room. It was a faraway sound, but so big, so deep, so strong, that it dominated the immediate brassy din like a growl of distant thunder.

  Distant, but getting closer fast, very fast. Joe Garstang looked startledly at Birrel. Birrel kept his face unmoved but under the edge of the table his fist clenched and unclenched as the whole place, the whole city, began to vibrate to that awesome thunder. It was rolling over them, shouting and echoing and then starting to slide away toward the west.

  Garstang's lips moved without saying the words aloud. “Class Twenty."

  Birrel nodded. There was no other ship that made that kind of sound in worldfall, but a modern battle-cruiser. He waited.

  Again, thunder ripped from the high, eastern sky and crossed above them and faded westward. And again. And again.

  Birrel was sweating now. How many more? If this was a full squadron, there was no doubt about it at all, it could only be one of Solleremos’ squadrons and the fat was in the fire.

  A fifth shock-wave rolled down its giant voice to them. He saw Mallinson and Lyllin coming back to the table. The music had stopped.

  There would not be any more, Birrel told himself. Five was all. There would not be—

  The sixth cruiser thundered past.

  Mallinson's eyes had a bright mockery in them, fastened upon Birrel's face.

  Now the seventh cruiser would come and then the rest, of the Orionid squadron and that would be it.

  The thunder ebbed away, and there was no seventh. The music took up again. Mallinson sat down, smiling.

  "That will be the official delegation from Perseus,” he said. “Mr. Charteris is at the spaceport to welcome them."

  Birrel gave him a hot, hungry stare. He was thinking that Mallinson had enjoyed watching him sweat. All right, he had sweated, he was still sweating. But this had done it. He would go it blind no longer in this accursed tangle. He saw a chance in this, and quickly took it.

  "I'm sure the chairman will be busy with these new visitors,” he said. “It seems a good time for me to take that little trip I mentioned."

  Mallinson looked honestly puzzled. “Trip?"

  "You remember—I said that I wanted to visit my ancestors’ old home here. I think that Lyllin and I will go up there tomorrow."

  Lyllin gave him a swift glance of surprise. She did not change expression, but of a sudden she seemed as remote as the edge of the galaxy. Birrel knew what she was thinking. All right, let her think it, at least until he got away from here.

  Mallinson said heartily, “Why, of course, I remember now. I'll have a flitter to take you."

  "A ground-car is enough, if I can borrow one,” Birrel said. “I'd rather drive and see more."

  Mallinson agreed instantly to that, too. He's glad to get me away from here right now, Birrel thought. But why?

  Maybe Karsh could tell him why. He hoped so. He hoped he would not find out the hard way.

  CHAPTER 10

  Driving north from New York next day, Birrel almost regretted his refusal of a flitter. It seemed ridiculous for a man who could lead a squadron across a big part of the galaxy, but the traffic frightened him.

  He had not driven cars very much, and certainly not on highways like this big, northern thruway. On Earth, people apparently still used cars in great numbers for short distances, and they drove fast. Automatic safety controls triggered by proximity radar prevented collisions, if you stayed within a certain speed limit, but none of these people appeared to worry about the limit. It was not until they branched off on a subsidiary highway that held much less traffic that Birrel's tension relaxed.

  Lyllin had hardly said a word to him since their start. He turned now toward her and said, “I want to explain about this ancestral home business. I didn't want to talk about it last night in Charteris’ place."

  Still looking composedly ahead, Lyllin said, “But you don't have to explain. It's perfectly natural that you should want to see the place your people came from."

  "Will you stop behaving like a woman and listen?” he said irritatedly. “My people, again. What in the world would I care where my great-grandfather lived? I'm doing this because Ferdias ordered it.” He added, “I wasn't supposed to tell you even that much, but it wouldn't look natural to leave you behind, so it seems I have to."

  Lyllin's face cleared and she turned now and looked at him. “Ferdias’ order? But why—” She stopped. Her mind was quick and after a moment she said, “You're to meet someone at this place, is that it?"

  "Yes."

  "And I'm not supposed to know what it's all about?"

  He nodded. “That's it."

  He thought that Lyllin looked somehow relieved. She said, “I don't mind, you don't have to tell me. I'm worried, I wish I knew, but it's all right."

  He understood. Her relief was because she had found out that he did not really care about Earth ancestors or ancestral homes, that that was only a cover-up.

  They turned off the secondary highway onto even less travelled roads. These back roads were old and rambling, twisting accommodatingly around hills and ponds, and bordered most of the way by big trees. A few of the trees Birrel knew, for their seeds had in the past been taken to other worlds, but others were totally strange to him. It was the same with the houses. Some of them were modem plastic-and-metal villas such as you would see on any civilized planet these days, but there were also antique stone houses, and once he and Lyllin both exclaimed when they saw a very old house that was built all of wood.

  It seemed to Birrel that this countryside looked as oldfashioned in its own way as did the city New York in a different way. They passed a steepled church mantled thick with ivy, stone fences with moss upon them, smooth fields that looked as though they had been tilled for ages. In some of the fields, quite modern driverless tractors were trundling about, doing the cultivation they were programmed for without need of any direction, Apparently this was mostly farming country, and that at least did not surprise Birrel. On every planet people still farmed, for the convenient synthetic foods never quite satisfied human hungers altogether. It was the obsolete look of the farms and homes and villages that surprised him.

  He remembered now something Charteris had told him as they looked from the latter's terrace at New York. “You'll find us very old-fashioned in some ways. It's really an emotional attachment to the past, to the times, even after star-travel began, when Earth was still the center of the universe.” Birrel had not fully understood that then, but now he was beginning to, it did explain why these people were so loath to give up old customs, old habits of thought, old ways of living that went back two centuries to the days of Earth's pre-eminence and glory.

  A brilliant bird flashed across the road and he and Lyllin argued what it was. “A robin, I think,” Birrel said doubtfully. “In school, when I was little, we had an old Earth poem about Robin Redbreast. I didn't know then what it was."

  "Not nearly so splendid as a Vegan flame-bird,” Lyllin said. “But the red of it, with these green trees and blue sky ... It's a pretty world, in a way."

  They rolled finally down a little hill and over a bridged stream into the town of Orville. It was only a village, with a number of shops, some modern plastic and others quite ancient in style, around an open square. There was a time-corroded statue of a soldier at the center of the park, and benches on which old men sat in the sun.

  Birrel asked directions of a merchant standing in front of his shop, a chubby man who stared open-mouthed at the two visitors. And Birrel suddenly realized how strange indeed they must look in this sleepy, little Earth village—he in his blue-and-silver starman's coverall, his face dark from foreign suns, and Lyllin whose beauty was a breath of the alien.

  A rag-tag of curi
ous, small boys had gathered around by the time he got his directions. He was glad to drive on out of the village by the designated road.

  "You would think” said Lyllin, “that it would all be more modern. After all, this is where it all started. But so many old-fashioned buildings, roads..."

  Birrel nodded. “I guess they poured most of what they had—men, money, materials—into the effort to conquer space. A lot of people have gone out from here and not come back. It doesn't have as many people now as it used to."

  This road was an even narrower and more rambling one, looping casually along the side of a wide, shallow valley whose neat farms and fields and patches of woods lay silent in the blaze of the soft golden sun. They met no other cars, though an occasional flitter bummed across the blue sky. The farms looked well-worked and prosperous, but most of the houses were old. Birrel kept counting them, and when he had counted six houses he turned into a lane and stopped.

  This house was of field-stone, an ancient, brown, dumpy structure that had a forlorn and deserted look. Under the tall, stiff, dark-green trees in its front yard—were they the trees called ‘pines?'—the grass was high and ragged. The lane went on past the house, past an orchard of gnarled trees heavy with green fruit, to a big old barn. There was no one in sight and no sign that anyone was here.

  "Are you sure it's the place?” asked Lyllin.

  He nodded, getting out of the car and starting toward the porch. “It's the place. Ferdias’ agent bought it a while ago, so we'd have this secluded place to make contact. There should be someone here."

  There was a bell-push at the door, but no one answered it. Birrel tried the door. It swung open, and they went in.

  They went through a dark, entry hall into a room such as they had never seen before. Its walls were of painted wood, instead of plastic. The furniture was wooden, too, and of archaic design, the whole effect to Birrel's eyes being one of slightly dismal ugliness. He stood, looking uncertainly around. The room, the house, were very silent.